


Flint and Tinder

by murgamurg



Category: One Piece
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Quiet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night of drinking, things get a little complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Ace stirs slowly.

Cold air raises goose flesh on his bare chest and shoulders. As he breathes, the air tastes unfamiliar. The flavor mixes with the sour taste of stale alcohol on the back of his tongue-- it tastes like a hot mug of tea, just a touch of jasmine. He’s so comfortable and the sheets feel smooth and soft against his skin. It’s a nice change from the scratchy burlap bags he usually has. In his half awake state this thought pleases him, and he hums, pressing himself into the warmth of said sheets and the body he's wrapped around.

_Body--!_

His eyes snap open in alarm and he sits up too fast, smacking his head on the bulkhead. He stifles a curse and scrambles out of the cot, flopping on the floor in a heap of limbs, pushing on his hands and feet towards the door, towards the wall, _anywhere_ away from the bed and that other body inside it.

He clutches his hands in his hair, trying to concentrate on breathing as the panic surges in his chest. He needs to keep a reign on his logia. The air starts to boil around him, sending a wave of superheated air outward and through the cramped cabin. Enough of a temperature change to wake the snoring body in the cot.

"Ace?" He questions, groggy and blinking sleep from his eyes. He props himself up on his elbows and the bed creaks under the shift in weight.

Ace's eyes flick to the bare and lean chest, and the crest emblazoned across it.

_Shit. Shit shit shitshitshit--_

Marco sits up faster when he sees the wild look on his crewmate’s face. Ace is normally composed, so seeing all six feet of him curled up and twitching like this is definitely cause for alarm.

"Ace?! What's wrong, eh?" He slides out of the sheets and onto the floor, padding carefully up to the younger man. He kneels on the floor and reaches to pull the Ace close.

"F-fuck-- stay away!" Ace spits through grit teeth and flinches away. He crushes his eyes closed and grips his hair so hard his hands are shaking. He’s losing it.

Thoughts smack like sledgehammers against his temples. Fuck. What the hell happened last night? How did he-- with _Marco_?

A memory surfaces and his heart plummets to the bottom of the sea. Fuck he'd been so _drunk_ , and Marco was looking at him like _that_ , like he was the only other person in the world and Ace couldn't help but push him up against his door and kiss him senseless because he's never felt _that_ from another human being, not even his brothers, and--

"Ace, breathe, eh. It's okay," Marco says softly, still kneeling in front of him.

Ace finally opens his eyes. Marco’s hands are clenched against his knees, betraying the calm in his voice. He silently thanks whatever gods that Marco is wearing boxers, he doesn’t think he could handle it if the other man was completely naked. He lets his eyes find Marco's face. To the guy’s credit, he's close enough to Ace that he's in a full, drenching sweat from the heat radiating off the younger man's body, but his face shows only concern, not discomfort. He's frowning.

Embarrassment and shame fight for precedence in Ace’s chest. Hot tears arc down his cheeks, and he feels like such a _child_.

"Did-- did we--?" He chokes out through grit teeth, preemptively cringing at the answer he doesn't want to hear. His eyes flick between Marco’s face and the bed.

Marco follows his gaze, and his eyebrows shoot up as he understands what Ace is asking. In his surprise, he can’t hold back an inappropriate laugh. His mouth curls into a small smile, he’s probably not making this situation better by _laughing_.

"No, no, we didn't,” He says, shaking his head. “What kind of person do you think I am, eh? That I would do that to you? You were drunk, Ace. That's the worst I've ever seen you."

Ace questions his trust in Marco for a moment. But why should he not trust him here, when he trusts him with his life?

He has no answer for himself.

Ace releases his death grip on his hair, and let's his hands fall to the deck, though they’re still clenched tight. His head lolls back until it hits the door, eyes shut against more tears threatening to push their way through. The relief of knowing surges through his chest, and he’s just glad that this happened in front of Marco, of all people.   

"Fuck," he whispers, knocking his head against the door. "I'm sorry."

"What is there to be sorry for?" Marco is so calm, it grounds Ace. Lets him regain some of his sanity.

He stares at the ceiling, counting the nails in the boards above his head. When he speaks, it's a raspy whisper.

"For this, for last night. Fuck. For everything."

Marco doesn't respond immediately, and his muscles tighten as anxiety winds him up in anticipation of a blow. He's been on the receiving end of Marco's kicks enough to know they fucking hurt, logia or not. _How dare you be so selfish_ , he'll say. _How dare you think of me as anything but your commander_.

"Can I touch you now?" Marco asks, instead.

Ace tilts his head forward to look at the older man, keeping his jaw shut with effort. He's not even sure what face he's making right now, but the sentiment that Marco just expressed floors him. His heart feels like it's just been ripped open, all the blood inside poured out and laid bare. He's asking permission. To touch him. Who the fuck _does_ that?

The feelings and gratitude catch themselves on Ace's voice and all he can do is nod.

Before he can react he finds himself being tugged forwards onto his knees and into Marco's arms. His nose presses up against the man's neck, skin sticky from drying sweat but underneath it feels like velvet. Marco's arms wrap around him, the other man's chest rising as he breathes in deeply, nose buried in Ace's hair. He can hear the other man's heartbeat and he suddenly feels so safe, he feels so _loved_ that his head spins and he doesn't understand how someone like this can _exist_.

Marco's voice is quiet in his ear. "You should know, eh. I won't say anything to the others. But I don't regret what we did do.” They’d spent long after dark chatting, while Ace continued to drink. He hadn’t realized how drunk Ace _was_ until the younger man threw himself at him.

Ace tries to choke out something coherent. "Yesterday I didn't even know I was-- that I was--" Fuck, why can't he even speak a whole _sentence_?

Marco's hands find his hair, and begin stroking themselves through it. The fingertips are soothing on his skull.

"Shh. It's okay, eh."

Ace breathes in slowly, and let's out a shuddering breath. He doesn't rightly know if he regrets this or not. Marco is the one who brought Ace into the family. He’s been Ace's best friend, always pushing him to strive for more, make himself better. He’s willing to put up with him when he’s like… _this_. What would Pops think about it all? If his top commanders had some kind of relationship?

Is that what he wants from Marco? He questions himself, but he already knows the answer. He doesn't know when his feelings shifted. Hell, he didn’t even know this option existed until right fucking _now_. It’s  terrifying and exhilarating and his heart is thudding far too much for this to have started ten minutes ago. Maybe this feeling had always been there, then. Bubbling beneath the surface.

He sees the ledge, one foot ready to step off. Knowing he'll die if he hits the bottom.

"I--" he stops. Regroups his thoughts. "I think I need some… some time. To think about it. This."

Marco's hands stop. Ace's heart clenches because he can feel the disappointment radiating off the other man as he's released from Marco's arms.

“Ok,” Marco says.

The other man stands up, and Ace does too. He watches as Marco grabs  a folded piece of clothing from the top of his chest of drawers and tosses it to him. He catches it clumsily, black fabric grating against his skin, metal clasp tinkling. It's his shorts.

He stares at them, unsure.

"I'm going to take a shower," Marco laughs, bending underneath the bed to grab for his towel. "I'm a little sweaty, eh?"

Ace is still staring at the fabric in his hands. Marco flips the towel over his neck. He steps next to Ace and rolls a knuckle under his freckled chin, sleepy blue eyes smiling kindly.

"I'm not kicking you out, eh? You can stay here, if you want."

Ace blinks himself out of his stupor. "No, it's ok. I've uh, I've got rounds I think,” he responds. He doesn't know for sure. He probably won't do them anyway.

Marco releases his chin, winks at him.

"Ok. See you at breakfast, eh."

He watches the other man leave, taking note of the early dawn light filtering through the jamb as he steps out.

Ace takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair. Slips on his shorts, one leg at a time. Fastens his belt. He doesn't have emotional outbursts like this very often, but they always leave him exhausted, maybe a little bit numb. He considers passing out on Marco's bed, reasonably certain the other man wouldn't mind, but decides against it. When he was younger he would just go for a swim to clear his head. He's still getting used to the fact that he can't, now. Maybe he could do something else to get off the ship, to quiet his mind.

When he exits the room he knows exactly where he's going. He grabs his hat and beelines for the stern, ignoring Thatch trying to flag him down from the mizzen. Probably about the rounds he did actually have to do. Fuck that, though.

He grabs Striker’s nose in one hand and dives over the rail, landing with a wobble on the waves. A hand goes to his hat, keeping it in place. Fire wells within him and ebbs it's way out his feet, pushing the skiff forward.

The salt and wind whip their way through his hair. He pushes Striker so fast, he could start doing tricks off the waves.

And all the while, he thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

"Can you get him? Dinner time. Actually, wait five minutes. The rest of us want something to eat, too."

Marco rolls his eyes and scoffs at his third division commander. Thatch only smiles at him, a cheeky grin, before giving Marco’s shoulder a rough slap and sauntering back towards the galley.

The Phoenix sighs, shaking his head. Thatch is up to something, but he has no idea what.

He turns back to the ocean, resuming his watch of the sunset while his second division commander does flips in a fire-driven skiff. He's only _coincidentally_ watching the sunset at the same time. It has nothing to with the fact that he might need to pull the younger man out of the water at the slightest slip. He lets his lip curl in a small smirk. The additional risk of drowning is probably how Ace thought of his new favorite recreational activity in the first place. Dumbass.    
  
He watches for a minute more, the flames a speck on the horizon. Ace has been doing this a lot lately. He knows it probably has something to do with... well, whatever it was that happened between them, but that was weeks ago. He wouldn't say their friendship has suffered-- honestly, sometimes he wonders if it even happened at all. Ace hasn’t been avoiding him, not really. He still comes to Marco for advice. Just yesterday even, he’d pissed off Haruta by singeing his favorite scabbard and asked Marco what to do. Marco just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder; _Just apologize_ , he’d said. But he hadn’t failed to notice that Ace was especially focused on his presence, and the weight of his hand on a freckled shoulder.    
  
He huffs, and closes his eyes, forsaking his train of thought. It takes a moment to clear his mind, but as he fills his lungs with the crisp ocean breeze it becomes easier. There's a slight tingle on his neck as cerulean flames cascade down his shoulders, to his fingertips, down his thighs and toes. One flap brings him over the rails, air bellowing underneath his wings as he skims above the choppy sea.

That flaming speck on the horizon gets steadily larger, and Marco stamps down the uneasy flutter in his stomach.

He catches up to Ace easily, just as the younger man's landing a backflip. A wave puts a swell beneath his wings, and he has to give them a steep tilt to stay in place. He flaps idly as Ace slows down with him and grins in greeting, hand on his hat. Marco pretends to not feel the tightness in his chest at the sight of those freckled cheeks.

"Dinner is ready, eh." He flaps a little more to stay above the surge. He hates the tinny sound his voice takes on while in this form, but Ace has told him it sounds 'cool'.

Ace rolls his eyes. Apparently that’s not what he thought Marco came out here for.

"Aw, can I have five more minutes mom?" He mocks, and a pulse of flames has him darting away over the next crest.

Marco's eyes linger on the trail of fire as it dissipates on the water. A swish of his pectorals sends him skirting the waves behind the petulant fireball.

"Thatch will be very unpleasant if you don't come on," he comments.

Ace scoffs, speeding up. "Just tell him to leave something out, I'll eat later."

Marco matches him without effort. Ace being obstinate is standard procedure, but he can't help but wonder if Ace would come in easier had Thatch sent someone else to fetch him. It hurts a little.

A thought comes to his mind, and he speaks it without thinking.

"I'll race you back, eh."

Ace stops so fast that Marco has to do a vertical loop.

The younger man’s face is serious when he comes back down, muscular arms folded across his bare chest and ridiculous hat pulled down over his eyes. He's rock steady, despite Striker's constant pitching.

"What are the stakes?"

Marco shrugs as best a bird can shrug while staying aloft. "Whatever you want, eh. But nothing painful or embarrassing," He adds, knowing what kind of mischief he’s gotten himself into.

"You're no fun," The grin is back on his face again, and Marco can feel himself grinning a bit, too. "I'll figure it out after I win, when we're back on the Moby."

"Is that so? Big words for the--" Marco starts to say, cocking a flaming eyebrow, but Ace bolts off towards the ship before he can finish. "O-oi!"

His flaps are effortless as he floats up next to the man's freckled shoulders. The flames powering the skiff are thrumming and vibrant, almost to his knees.

"No cheating, eh!" He shouts over the surf and the noise of Striker’s turbines.

Ace's grin is face-splitting when he looks back, and Marco's flaps falter. "Too late!" Ace yells, laughing.

Ace crouches, lending fire from his hands to the engines and making himself more aerodynamic. He gains an extra burst of speed, and Marco’s phoenix eyes can almost make out the detail on the Moby Dick's prow.

He narrows his eyes, and pulls his wings in close. No way is he going to let that brat actually win this.

They're both blazing over the surf. Ace is practically leaping off waves one after the other, yipping in delight when the air gives him extra distance. Marco is flapping minimally, using his tail to keep himself barely above the water, keeping his neck straight to reduce drag.

Ace vaults off a crest and his feet leave Striker’s cockpit. Marco can tell he's too close to the Moby's hull already; he was trying to throw himself over the rail for a victory but the angle is far too low. There’s no way he could gain any more momentum in time to survive. He'll hit the side, knock himself out, and plummet into the ocean.

Marco doesn't even think.

His tail shifts and his wings pitch up and he yaws to the left at a sharp angle. His talons find Ace's shoulders, digging in slightly as the change in pitch from horizontal to vertical subjects them both to magnified gravity, Marco’s beak grinding together with the effort of it all. He’s not used to carrying people, but he doesn’t remember Ace being so unnaturally _heavy_ .  
  
He looks down, and finds relief flooding through him. Ace is laughing, spots of blood leaking from where the talons pierce his freckled skin. One hand clutches the nose of his skiff, and the other his hat.

The Phoenix drops him hard on the Moby's empty deck; his anger surges in the wake of his elation. Striker clatters away toward the mainmast and Ace stumbles backwards, regaining his balance.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking, eh?" Marco bellows at him, now fully human and charging forward. "You _knew_ that was too low! You could have--"

"I won!" Ace interrupts. His fists are pumping in the air, triumphant laugh on his tongue. "I touched the deck first!”

Confusion strikes Marco, and then resentment. His mouth settles into a hard line as Ace sneers at him, tipping his hat with an ignited finger and contagious grin.

“In your face, Phoenix!" He laughs.

Marco fumes for the entire dinner. He grudgingly shoves food into his mouth as Ace tells some fantastical version of what actually happened during their race.

"I was so far ahead!" Ace continues, his mouth full of food, gesticulating wildly as he tries to create a picture for the other crewmembers. "You guys should have seen it! I was all, jumping off waves and shit, and pineapple-head over here was panicking, like 'oh no, I can't catch up!'"

"You cheated!" Marco cuts in.

The group erupts in a burst of laughter. Marco swallows his food and looks at Ace, who is smiling so much and laughing so hard he's crying. Suddenly, he doesn't feel like protesting anymore.

"So how'd you get those marks on your shoulders then?" Haruta asks, pointing with his fork.

Izou hums and turns a lined eye to their first division commander. "Talons?" He muses, lips pursing.

Thatch pipes in before Ace can reply, elbowing Izou in the ribs: "How much you wanna bet Marco was giving him an early reward?" He snickers.

Marco's eyebrows shoot up. He hasn’t told a soul about what happened, but he isn’t sure what would drive Thatch to make that kind of comment. It’s possible that the tension between them is more obvious than he thought. Of course, it’s hard to hide things from his family, but there’s no way Thatch would just say something like that if he knew how Ace reacted that morning. If anything, he’s found the tension pretty one-sided. He couldn’t say Ace has shown any indication at all.

...other than his nightly outings with Striker. That Marco _coincidentally_ observes.

Maybe it _is_ more obvious than he thought.

He looks sidelong at Ace, who's pulled his hat down over his eyes. Only Marco, sitting beside him, can see the red blush coloring his cheeks.  

"Nah. He saved me from drowning earlier, that's all," Ace retorts, cool as a cucumber.

They seem to take the hint, and the conversation moves on to other things. Marco tunnel visions on his plate for the rest of the meal, ignoring any number of eyes that burn into his back when he stalks out of the galley early.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm weak and this one was getting incredibly long so there's going to be a 3rd chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely comments :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here have some of the most generic marcoace fic ever... they're so in love it's disgusting.

Ace pushes up his hat with his thumb and grins as Izou lets out a hearty laugh across the poker circle. The third division returned from the past week’s mission earlier in the afternoon, all well and with a ship full of supplies. Of _course_ they’re throwing a party, and Ace thumbs through his cards, only to realize he’s got nothing. He scans the faces in the circle, a bit hazy from the drinks but unlike last time, still in control of himself.

He frowns, noticing that someone’s missing from this card game. His legs twitch up and down, fingers tapping against his knee. He needs to go stretch his legs.

“I’m out,” Ace says, folding his cards and getting up.

He takes a mug with him to the starboard rail. The ale tastes amazing, just a show of what Thatch can bring back when he knows they’ll get to drink it straight away. Freckled elbows lean on the flaking white paint and he huffs, running a hand over his face and through his hair, pushing the hat off of his head. It falls onto his back, held on by the string around his neck.  

He notices someone -- Izou, actually -- slipping up next to him like a cat. He mimics Ace’s pose, and gazes up at the moon.

“So Ace,” Izou starts casually, turning to face the younger man, eyes piercing. Ace wishes he'd kept his hat down.  “How do you find our first division commander?”

He understands Izou’s intentions well enough. But two can play at that game.

“What do you mean? I mean he’s right over there--” he gestures with a thumb over his shoulder, feigning ignorance. “I can go get him if you--”

“I meant how do you _feel_ about him, you numbskull,” Izou clarifies. He presents a leg of meat in offering, pulled from some secret compartment in his kimono. Ace didn’t even know they had those.

He accepts the proffered chicken leg. At least... He thinks it's chicken. It tastes like chicken. He guesses Izou knows him well enough to know he doesn’t care what kind of meat it is anyway.

“Ah. He’ff awright I gueff,” he shrugs with a mouthful of food. “A liffle bowing maybe.”

He’s startled by Izou’s laugh, sharp and loud.

“ _Boring_ ?” The other man continues, now guffawing politely into his palm. “That’s the last thing I expected coming from _you_. You follow him around like a pouting puppy dog,”

“I do _not_ ,” He pouts, but without the usual vigor. He tosses the chicken bone into the sea.

Izou falls silent. Ace guesses the other man picked up on his strange mood, and he isn’t surprised. Izou is as perceptive as he is flamboyant. Conversations continue behind them. Ace finds himself listening to them, if only to fill the uneasy silence that’s settled between himself and his crossdressing brother. Thatch’s booming laugh cuts through, and a chorus of voices join him in egging someone on. Sounds like Jozu, or maybe Vista. One of their newbies is getting _trashed_ tonight.

“So tell me though. What’s up, little wing?” Izou inquires finally, quietly.

Ace frowns and looks away, fingers mapping the dips and curves in the handle of his mug. Maybe it would help to talk to someone about it. He should tell Izou at least, right?

Taking his silence as an objection to answer instead of hesitation, Izou presses on in a low tone. “Thatch saw you come out of his room a few weeks ago, you know,” he informs Ace, who bites his lip. “If there’s a problem, you should talk about it instead of endangering your life on a daily basis.”  

“There’s no problem,” He responds quickly, but at Izou’s arched and finely pencilled eyebrow, he knows he has to explain.

“I… maybe had a tiny freakout when I woke up. I guess I got a little drunk that night; I didn’t remember how I got there,” He elaborates. Izou looks at him with pity, then understanding, then--

“He _didn’t_ !” He hisses, eyes wild and angry, drawing closer to Ace and digging his nails into the younger man’s forearm. “I mean, he didn’t do anything while you were _out_ , did he? Because I’ll go give him a _very_ stern talking to--”

“No! No no no.” Ace waves his hand to emphasize the negative. Takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “He was actually really… nice about it.”  

Izou leans back a little, hand still resting on Ace’s forearm. “Oh. So… what’s the problem?”

“There’s not one, I think.” Ace takes a swig from his mug. Damn this ale is good. But Izou’s not done with his interrogation, and throws him another arched eyebrow.

“You _think_?”

“Well… I think he was _expecting_ something? Or was hopeful, or something,” He takes a deep drink, using the time to gather his thoughts. “But I’d never even _thought_ about it till then, but apparently drunk-me had, so…. so I told him I needed to think about it. And we haven’t really talked about it since then.” He can’t believe he’s talking about this to _Izou_ , of all people. He’d be glad if half the ship didn’t know come morning.

“Oh honey,” Izou says, pity written all over the set of his mouth.

Ace can’t help but roll his eyes at his brother’s face. “Ugh, don’t look at me like that. It’s gross.”

“But you need to talk to him, Ace dear.” Izou was concerned for sure, but he had no need to be. So Ace put him straight.

“I know! I was going to,” Ace throws a hand out towards the ocean. “Tonight.” He scratches the back of his scraggly and salt-laden hair, and adds an afterthought: “I was actually psyching myself up for it before you came over here.”

Izou squeals and he immediately regrets his decision, throwing a hand over his face.

“I’msoproudofyou!” The sixteenth division commander darts forward and pecks him on the cheek. “Good luck!”

He dances away and Ace lets out a breath in relief. He’s thankful that conversation is over, and drains what’s left in his mug for some liquid courage.

 _The moon looks nice tonight_ , he thinks. It’s the last thing that comes to mind before he slumps forward on the rail.

* * *

When he comes to, the moon is _much_ higher than it was before.

He squints against the bright moonlight, noticing that the party that was behind him is now nonexistent. Lips pull into a frown and he pouts for himself, a bit put out that he probably missed out on some good food and family antics.  

He walks around the ship. The moon is full and bright this evening, illuminating all corners of the deck. He can see a few figures clearly-- the poor souls relegated to tying up the rigging, or swabbing the deck where there was a good fistfight earlier. _Damn, I can’t believe I missed that_ , he curses to himself. But none of these people are Marco.  
  
Not like he'd actively look for that birdbrain, but…

He uses his logia to dart up into the Moby’s rigging, careful not to catch the sails like he used to in his early days. He’s somewhere between the mizzen and mainmast, squatting on the rope with carefully balanced and booted toes.  
  
"Marco?" His whispers loudly towards the crows nest. The fact that he _knows_ Marco will be there makes his chest feel a bit strange.

"Polo," comes the response.  
  
Ace pauses, confused. Definitely Marco’s voice, but… _what_ ?  
  
A blue flame illuminates the mizzen on the platform a meter above him. "Up here, eh."  
  
He shakes his head and clambers up the ropes, using one hand to vault over the rail. In his drowsy state his foot catches, and he falls into  the crow’s nest in a heap of limbs.  
  
Marco chuckles, hands behind his head, reclining against the banister. "Graceful as ever, eh?"  
  
"Shut up, I just woke up," he snaps back, scratching the back of his head to ruffle his hair a bit. He sidles up next to Marco and leans against the banister himself, their shoulders and arms touching.

Part of Marco thrills at this; Ace is the only one who ever bothers to really cuddle up against him. The others usually see him as too stern, too aloof. He lets out a long breath instead. He remembers seeing Ace and Izou chatting earlier in the night, and needs to get something out of the way.

“If Izou put you up to this, you don’t have to be here, eh.” Marco says, eyes shut.

 _Huh?_ Ace raises an eyebrow. "Izou didn’t tell me to come up here,” He blinks, confused.

Marco just shrugs.

“I was lookin for ya ‘cause I never claimed my winnings from the other day." He says, waggling his eyebrows sidelong at the older man, grinning like a fool and picking at a string on his shorts.

Marco groans, rolling his eyes. He knows he’s not going to like whatever punishment the stupid fireball will mete out. "It was like two days ago. And you only won by a technicality, eh," he protests, but Ace knows he'll go through with whatever he decides.

Grey eyes peer out over the rail at the moonlight glittering off the sea, now smooth as glass. He puffs out a breath, bracing himself for what he’s about to do. He runs a hand through his hair and looks back at Marco. The other man is observing him with a cocked eyebrow, and the unasked question of _what's wrong, eh?_ pulls Ace’s cheeks into a coy grin.

_Well, it's now or never._

Ace reaches up and grabs Marco's chin. He tugs and Marco doesn't resist, though the expression on his face morphs from confused to completely bewildered.

Their lips touch. Soft, nothing more than pressed together.

Ace’s backs off, only an inch or two, thumb still pressing gently into the blonde scruff on Marco’s chin. Gray eyes find blue, searching for some kind of response other than a wide-eyed stare from the normally easy-going man.

None comes.

Ace’s stomach flips. What if Marco didn't want anything like this from him? What if he’d just been kind that morning because that’s what Marco _is_ \-- endlessly kind. What if he'd just been reading into it, this whole time?  
  
Then Marco's hand is like a vice on his bicep, hauling Ace forward into his lap while the other knots itself in Ace’s coarse hair. Their mouths are crushed together. Ace takes in the scent as his nose presses against Marco’s cheek: it's the same as it was that morning, and it’s _home_ so much that Ace’s chest _hurts_ with longing. Raw, pent up emotion pours itself from one to the other, and Ace's brain stutters as he tries to keep up with the other man’s tongue. His chest is going to explode. Marco's kissing him like he's the last person on earth. Like he needs this to _breathe_ , and oh _god_ Marco is _kissing_ him within an _inch_ of his _life_ \--  
  
He pulls back, panting, a hand on Marco's chest. Fingers spread over the edges of Whitebeard’s crest.    
  
"Holy shit," he breathes. His lungs are heaving. "Is that what I missed? Fucking... Wow."  
  
Marco is looking at him intently, just as affected. Unsure. Eyes pleading.  
  
"Ace," he says, voice strangled. He clears his throat. Blue eyes flicking between gray ones. "Is this ok, eh? Are we...?"  
  
Ace sees the ledge, and the ravine below. Steps off, with his middle fingers up.  
  
It’s fine though. He's got a bird that will catch him.  
  
"Yeah," he says, absolutely certain. He’ll never regret this. Ever.    
  
Their lips meet again and Ace feels a tingle as digits covered in blue flames slide up his spine. He's done a lot of thinking lately, probably more than he's done his whole damn life. And it all came down to one thing: trust.  
  
He could trust Marco with his life. He could trust Marco to watch him break and help him through it, and not _ever_ tell a soul how weak he was. He could trust Marco to know his past, know his father, and not judge him. And so he could trust Marco with this. With this... _feeling_ .  
  
A laugh bubbles up in his chest and comes out sharply. It breaks the kiss but Ace doesn’t go far, instead pressing his forehead into Marco’s as he starts to chuckle.

"What's so funny, eh?" Marco asks, a bit put off by the fact they weren't kissing any more, but the manic grin on Ace's face puts a smile in his voice.  
  
"I dunno!" Ace says, laughing again. The moonlight reflects off his teeth, and Marco thinks about how much he wants to count the freckles on his cheeks. "It just... feels so good!"  
  
Marco likes it when he laughs. “That’s good,” He says, running a hand up Ace’s side, the other cupping the younger man’s cheek.  
  
It looks like Ace is going to come in for another kiss until their faces miss completely and Ace’s head slumps forward to land on his shoulder.

 _Damn sleep attacks_ , he thinks, rolling his eyes. But he can’t even be mad, given the last five minutes. Anything is good, as long as Ace is around.

He leans his head back against the banister. He’s warm now at least, and rather comfortable. He smiles at the sleeping face, and thinks maybe he should get some sleep, too.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
